In The Dark - BBC Sherlock Fanfic
by TheCoatedShade
Summary: *SEQUEL TO "I Think I Love You", WHICH CAN BE FOUND IN MY STORY COLLECTION* Sherlock Holmes, John Watson's best friend, is dead. But was that all he was? His best friend?
1. Chapter 1

John walked all the way back to Baker Street. He didn't want to talk to anyone, not even a cabbie. His head was swimming, full of jumbled thoughts. He was barely aware of his surroundings, and nearly got hit by a car on the way to the flat.

He fumbled with the doorknob when he finally got home, and pushed his way inside. He climbed the staircase, it feeling like Mount Everest with all the effort it seemed to be taking. He entered the living room and did something unexpected, he slumped on the couch, turned to face the wall and curled up in a ball like Sherlock did sometimes. He stared into the fabric of the sofa, and finally the tears streamed down his face.

"Is that you John?" Mrs Hudson called from above.

John ignored it, and hoped that she wouldn't bother him. He didn't want to have to tell her; not now. He squeezed his eyes shut and the trapped tears escaped, doing the same as the others. He heard footsteps approaching. He panicked; Mrs Hudson was coming.

"John?" she said as she entered the living room.

Her eyes fell on the curled up man on the sofa.

"John, what on Earth's the matter?"

John lied still. He didn't know if he would be able to speak.

"John?" Mrs Hudson sat on the edge of the sofa.

She placed a hand on his shoulder gently. "Please tell me, dear, you're worrying me."

"I don't know if I can." John's voice cracked, and more hot tears spilled from his eyes, unseen by the landlady.

"John." Mrs Hudson's tone became sterner, and she tugged at John's shoulder.

He turned his head to her, and she saw his wet face and his red eyes.

"John, what is it?" she sounded very concerned, on the verge of tears herself, and she didn't even know yet.

"It's…"

"Yes?"

"Sherlock." John choked.

"What about him? Where is he? Is he hurt?"

"Sherlock's… dead."

Mrs Hudson gasped, and brought her hand to her mouth; her eyes widened.

"No, John, you're being silly. Stop it, don't say that." Mrs Hudson blurted.

"I'm not being silly, I'm telling the truth." John spoke quietly, like a sad child.

Mrs Hudson sniffed, and then she cracked, sobbing, and she pulled John closer and sobbed into his shoulder.

"What… what happened?" she said in a shaky voice.

"He jumped off of St Bart's. I don't know why." John muttered over Mrs Hudson's cries.

At this, the landlady pulled John even closer, and she shook more violently.


	2. Chapter 2

A few days had gone by with no visitors; perhaps they knew that John would need some space. But that space would soon deteriorate at the funeral.

Mrs Hudson made tea for them both that morning and they sat in the living room together, in near silence. The only sounds were of the cars passing by and of them taking a sip from their tea cups.

"You know you don't have to do this." John said abruptly.

"Do what, dear?" Mrs Hudson looked up.

"Keep me company. I can manage."

Mrs Hudson thought for a moment. "I just don't want you to feel alone, John."

"Well I am alone!" John exclaimed, and made Mrs Hudson jump.

He looked up at the landlady. She looked shocked and sad. "I'm sorry." He said.

"It's quite alright." She took another sip of tea. "Would you like me to leave you?"

"No. We have… we have to talk about the… the…"

"Funeral." Mrs Hudson finished for him.

"Yes, that. Who will be going?" John asked painfully.

"Quite a number; many people want to pay their respects."

"Do they now? What respect did he get before he passed? Where was the respect then?"

"John,"

"I don't want these people, telling me that they're 'sorry', when they could have done something before it happened! He needed to know people still believed him, instead of the papers! Now look!"

"John," Mrs Hudson repeated, and she moved to the sofa and sat next to John, her arm around him.

He inhaled deeply. He didn't want to cry again, not now. He tried his best to hold it back.

"Greg and Molly will be there. They're your friends aren't they?" Mrs Hudson comforted.

"Lestrade believed Sherlock was a fake." John spoke quietly, but angrily.

"I don't think he did, John. He felt under pressure from everyone else; I'm sure he didn't want to believe it; I'm sure he didn't."

"Well he could have stood up to the others and told them the truth, instead of letting it get that far."

"It's over and done now John. Let's not think about what could have been done."

The funeral arrived. It was like time itself was confused, as it felt as if it had taken a long time and yet barely any time at all, to get to this day.

John and Mrs Hudson shared a cab. They sat in silence until they finally arrived and got out of the car. Mrs Hudson could see Greg Lestrade in the distance, and watched as the detective inspector spotted John, and started to make his way over. She hoped that John would be reasonable, especially on a day like this. John hadn't spotted Greg yet, and only saw him when he was just feet away.

"How are you coping?" Greg asked. He didn't know what else he could possibly say.

John thought about how much of a stupid question that was, but answered anyway. "No too well, but thanks for asking."

John wasn't going to hold a grudge. He could see by the look on Greg's face that he was broken too.

"Do you want to walk together?" Greg offered.

"Sure."

They walked down the path of the cemetery together, Mrs Hudson on the other side of John.

The time finally came when John was to give a speech. He hadn't prepared anything at all, but he went up none the less, and stood facing the crowd. He cleared his throat, and everyone stared up at him.

"As you probably know, Sherlock Holmes was my flat mate." John paused, and took a deep breath. "He was also my best friend; and although some of you have known him for longer than myself, I feel as if I have known him forever. I saw sides of him that people seem to think aren't there; the funny, playful sides, and I saw how he cared for people. I even saw the side of dark depression." John took another steady, but slow breath before he went on. "I feel as if I have wronged him by not telling him the truth in time, before… before it happened. I did not pluck up the courage to say that I loved Sherlock Holmes. I loved him for everything about him; the highs and the lows. He never knew this, and now it's too late."

John hung his head, and stepped down, walking back to his seat, feeling eyes following him there. Molly, who was a few rows away, looked over at John.

_So he did love him._ She thought, and more tears fell down her sad face.

Lestrade, who was sitting next to John, felt even more guilt. Even though it did seem surprising at first, that the doctor loved the detective, it explained so many things, as from what Greg had seen, Sherlock loved John too.

Sherlock looked on from his hidden place. He'd observed the funeral since it started, and he listened intently to John's speech. He tried to blink away his own tears, but one managed to escape.


	3. Chapter 3

When the funeral was over, John called a cab immediately, wanting to leave as soon as possible. John stood in the car park, waiting impatiently for the cab to arrive, when he felt a hand on his arm.

"John," said a gentle voice.

John turned his head. Molly was gazing up at him with her soft brown eyes.

"If there's anything you need…" she coughed and her eyes filled with tears.

She tried to wipe them away quickly, but she started sobbing. John wasn't sure what to do before he pulled her close to him and held her. She had broken down like he felt he was going to constantly – and sometimes did when no one was around – and he saw that she cared a lot about Sherlock too. She wasn't like the other people who just wore a solemn face and looked at John with pity.

Molly stepped back and looked up at John again, not bothering to remove the tears from her blotchy face.

"I want to be able to help, in any way I can. So please, don't hesitate to ask."

John nodded, afraid if breaking down himself, and Molly turned and stepped away.

Greg looked on from a distance, and he watched Molly walk from the soldier. He wasn't sure what to do. He suspected John was furious at him for believing Sherlock may have been a fake, and that he'd just been friendly today because it was his best friend's – his love's – funeral.

Molly broke down after she'd said those words… those words she'd said to Sherlock. She wanted to tell John so badly that Sherlock was alive, that he was okay and that they could be together soon, but she couldn't. she promised Sherlock she wouldn't, and she wouldn't break a promise. But she also made Sherlock promise something – she made him promise that he'd let her look after John.

John heard footsteps on the gravel behind him. He turned his head slightly just to try and see who it might be without looking straight at them. He saw polished shows and the regular swing of a black umbrella: Mycroft. John whipped his head around and glared at the man with fury.

_"You,"_ John said in a disgusted tone.

Mycroft looked back at John with sadness in his eyes.

"This is all your fault." John had stepped closer to Mycroft now. "If it wasn't for you, none of this would have happened!"

Heads turned at the source of noise. John looked around at the staring faces and opened his mouth to continue his accusations, when there was a tug on his arm.

"The cab's here John, come on." Mrs Hudson hurried him along towards the cab.

John looked back at Mycroft. If the cab hadn't arrived he might have said a lot more.

Molly waited at the cemetery until every last person from Sherlock's funeral had left. She leant against the low fence until a man in a grey hooded jacket approached her.

"How much did you see?" Molly asked Sherlock.

"I saw John's speech." Sherlock muttered, as he pulled his hood down.

He's let his facial hair grow out and his hair was dyed brunette. It had also been cut shorter, to make him look a lot less like the great detective.

"Put your hood back on!" Molly whispered frantically, searching her surroundings for onlookers.

"Alright," Sherlock pulled up the grey hood. "I hope you didn't give anything away."

"Of course I didn't, I promised you." Molly stared at the ground sadly.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, worried.

"I wish we didn't have to do this." Molly's voice wobbled. "John is torn apart; and if you saw his speech, you will know… he loves you."

Sherlock stared at his feet. _"Loved."_

"What?"

"He _loved_ me."

"No Sherlock_, loves_. He loves you still, even though he thinks you're gone."

"It doesn't matter." Sherlock said quickly.

"_Doesn't matter?_ Sherlock…" Molly sighed. "I just hope you do whatever you need to do fast, because John needs you, and I hate looking him in the eye and knowing that I know you're alive, and he doesn't. I hate it so much." She shook her head sadly.


	4. Chapter 4

"John, was that really necessary?" Mrs Hudson closed the front door behind them.

"Yes, it was! This is his fault! He gave all that information to Moriarty so that he knew exactly how to destroy Sherlock!"

"I think we'd best go up and have some tea." Mrs Hudson suggested.

"Contrary to popular belief, Mrs Hudson, tea does not solve everything!"

"Maybe so John, but you should have some anyway.

John had calmed down a bit after he sat down with Mrs Hudson, and they talked about Molly.

"I think you should take her up on her offer." Mrs Hudson said.

"I don't need help."

"You may think that isolating yourself is the best thing to do, but it really isn't, John. You need company and friends. Otherwise you'll drown in your own thoughts."

"So you know what I need do you? You just know how I'm feeling now?"

"You're not the only one who's lost someone, you know." Mrs Hudson spoke softly.

Now John felt stupid. Of course, she'd lived longer than him, of course in that time someone she loved would have passed away.

"I'm sorry…" John began awkwardly, when there was a knock at the door.

"I'll get it." Mrs Hudson got up hastily.

A few moments mater there were two pairs of footsteps making their way up the stairs. Mrs Hudson re-entered the room, closely followed by-

"Mycroft," John stood up and all the anger from earlier flooded back.

"John, let's be-"

"Shut up! Get out of my house! Go on! I have no interest in what you have to say!"

"John, if you could just-"

"No! Get out, or I swear I will drive my fist into your face!" John shook with rage.

"JOHN WATSON, SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP!"

John didn't know if it was because of the tone of Mycroft's voice, or because he was a very powerful man that he obeyed, but he sat back on the sofa, and stayed quiet.

"I didn't come here to argue. I want this to be as civilised as possible." Mycroft paused before he went on. "Something that you don't seem to realise is that I blame myself; entirely. I don't strut around pretending that everything's fine, like you seem to believe. I miss my brother dearly, and although we didn't often get along, I loved him very much, so yes, I know this is my fault, but I am here to help you. If there I anything you need, and I mean anything, you just let me know; whether it's money, transport, food, anything at all. I don't expect you to forgive me, but I do hope you will accept my offer."

Mrs Hudson looked at Mycroft, then at John. She raised her eyebrows at him, signalling for him to answer.

"Oh, well… yes. Yes, I will."

"Very good." Mycroft nodded, and he turned on his hell to proceed back down the stairs.

"You should have apologised to him." Mrs Hudson muttered.

Molly and Sherlock arrived back at Molly's flat. Sherlock slumped on her couch and she turned on the television, squeezing next to her thin friend.

"Must we have that boisterous noise in the background?" Sherlock asked irritably.

"I don't like silence." Molly replied, as she flicked through the channels.

"You work at a morgue."

"Well, I don't let it be silent." Molly said awkwardly.

Sherlock shot her a questioning glance.

"I sometimes… hum; or sing." Molly flushed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and dropped his head back on the pillow.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Molly asked.

"Talk about what?"

"John; or just the funeral itself?"

"Will talking about it solve anything?"

"Well, no…"

"Then I will not."

At that, Sherlock's face slumped back into the pillow, and it was clear that the conversation was over.

"I feel like a bit of an idiot now." John spoke as he lay back on the sofa.

"Oh?"

"You were right Mrs Hudson, it wasn't necessary. It's like I forgot that Mycroft is Sherlock's brother. I mean, I'm still angry of course, but…"

"It's okay dear," Mrs Hudson sat on one of the recliner chairs. "Let's just watch some good old crappy telly to end the day."

"What do you suppose we do with his things?" John spoke abruptly as the night went on.

"What's that, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked.

"Sherlock's things; what do you suppose we do with them?"

"Well… do you want them?"

"I don't know."

"Well perhaps we'll wait a week or so before we decide." Mrs Hudson suggested. "Is that the time? I think I'll be off to bed. See you in the morning."  
the landlady got up and pat John's shoulder softly before continuing out of the living room.

Shortly after, John got out of his seat, and headed for Sherlock's room. He hadn't been in there since before he died. He pushed open the door slowly and peered inside. The bed hadn't been made, and the top draw of his dresser was slightly open. The pillow still was in the shape as if Sherlock had only just been sleeping there. John felt a lump in his throat forming, but he continued to observe the room. He brushed his hand against the pillow, and moved to the dresser. He pulled open the drawer which was slightly ajar. It was full of many pairs of plain black socks, but something white was visible beneath them. John dug his hand in the draw and pulled out a piece of A5 paper. It was a drawing. It was a drawing of a window. John looked around at the room, and came to the conclusion that it was drawn inside the room. He sat on Sherlock's bed, and looked up at the view from there to the window. It looked like just about the same view as the drawing.

_He sat here while he drew this._ John thought, and a tear escaped.

He didn't know why he was crying over a drawing of a window. Maybe it was because he didn't know Sherlock did such a normal thing as to draw. He took the drawing back to his room, and put it down on his bed while he searched through the drawers of his bedside table. He eventually found a blank notebook. He picked up the drawing and slipped it inside. He didn't know why he did it, he just felt like he should. He then went to the bathroom to brush his teeth, before coming back into his room. He placed the notebook on top of his bedside table and slipped into bed, turning the lamp off just before his head hit the pillow. He wondered if he'd find anything else unusual in Sherlock's room.


	5. Chapter 5

There was a buzz. John turned his head and pushed himself up in the bed, reaching over to his phone. There was a new message.

_Hi John,  
I was just wondering if you wanted to catch up today. You could choose the place; that's if you want to catch up. It's okay of you don't.  
- Molly_

John stared at the message for a while. When he thought about it, Molly was probably the only person he'd really want to see. Even he knew men weren't exactly good with emotional situations. He couldn't picture how Lestrade would react if he burst into tears in his presence. John sent back a text to Molly.

_Sounds great. Where do you want to meet? Do you want to have breakfast somewhere?  
- JW_

John inspected his message before he pressed 'Send'. He still had the habit of writing 'JW'. The thought of erasing it and writing his full name occurred, but he decided against it and sent the message.

Molly sent back a reply quickly, making the arrangements, before placing her phone back on the table.  
"Sherlock," he walked down the hall and stood outside the door to the guest room.  
There was silence. He hadn't talked much at all since the funeral.  
"I'm seeing John today."  
A head appeared in the doorway, messy hair sticking in all directions.  
"When?" Sherlock asked sharply.  
"Very soon. We're having breakfast together."  
"Can I come?"  
"What? Sherlock! Are you crazy?"  
"I can hide in plain sight! I just want to see him." Sherlock's eyes were filled with desperation, and it won Molly over.  
"Alright, but I can't stress enough how important it is that you look very unlike yourself. No long coats, no turned up collars, and no scarves."  
"I know."  
"Also, we need to go shopping soon, to get you some more clothes. You can't wear the same thing all the time."  
"If you think so." Sherlock mumbled.

John told Mrs Hudson where he was going, before he left the flat, locking the door behind him. He caught a cab to a little café that Molly had suggested, and he saw her standing outside of it, leaning patiently against the wall. John stepped out of the cab and met her.  
"Hello," he said simply.  
"Hi John; shall we go inside?" Molly smiled warmly.  
"Yes, I've worked up quite an appetite."  
The stepped inside the cosy café and found a table. John took up a menu and examined it. Molly did the same, but used the laminated menu to hide the fact that she whipped her head around to where Sherlock was sitting, in the back corner of the café, against the wall. He nodded to her, before he looked back at his own menu absently.  
After their orders were placed, John decided to start the conversation, as he didn't want Molly to fall back on the 'How are you?' as it could make things awkward.  
"So, have you done much over the past few days?" John asked, genuinely interested.  
"Oh, uh, not much; mainly just doing things around the house and… well I'm looking after a, um… cousin of mine." Molly had panicked. Maybe she shouldn't have mentioned anything about it. She just wanted something to talk about.  
"A cousin? What, a child?"  
"Oh no, he'd around my age. He's just not in a good place right now, so he's staying at my place."  
"Oh, well I wish him all the best."  
"Thank you. So how about you? What have you been up to?"  
"The same as you, pretty much. Mrs Hudson is acting against her rule of not being our housekeeper."  
Molly noted how he still said 'Our'. It seemed he noticed too, as he frowned to himself. Trying to move the conversation away from sadness, Molly spoke again.  
"What do you mean by that?" she said quickly.  
"She's looking after me." John smiled to himself, and his mind fell to another thought. "I found something interesting yesterday."  
"What's that?"  
"I went in Sherlock's room, and I found a drawing. Did you know he was an artist?"  
Molly was surprised, but glad that John had the confidence to go in Sherlock's room after the accident.  
"No, I didn't. Was it good?"  
"Oh yes, it was brilliant! I'm hoping to find more, and start a sort of scrapbook with them in. I think it might be a nice thing to do."  
"I think it will be." Molly smiled at the doctor, and he smiled back.

Sherlock ordered just a coffee. He kept watch on Molly, trying to guess what they may be talking about, but when John smiled he couldn't work it out. Of course he wanted the doctor to be happy, but it made Sherlock think: would John be just fine without him? Would he move on with his life; forget him? It would make things easier, but he didn't want John to forget. He wanted John to be happy and relieved when he returned. He wanted things to go back to normal.

John left the café in a cab. He offered for Molly to come back to Baker Street, but she said she should go back home to her 'cousin'. Molly met Sherlock out the front of the café. He was in his grey hoodie again, looking almost the same as he had at the funeral.  
"How is John?" he asked as soon as they were only a small distance apart.  
"I think he's doing okay. I think he just needed company."  
Sherlock though for a moment, before speaking suddenly. "What was he smiling about?"  
"He found a drawing in you room yesterday." Molly said questioningly.  
Sherlock's cheeks flushed, much to Molly's surprise.  
"No," he muttered.  
"What's wrong?"  
"Well, he's not going to search for more, is he?"  
"I think so. He really likes the one he found. He had no idea you were an artist, and neither did I."  
"I'm hardly an artist. I wish he never found it." Sherlock sighed.  
"Why not?"  
"I just do. Let's go home." Sherlock said shortly.


	6. Chapter 6

John was glad that he'd finally gone out with someone. Being in the flat all the time was driving him crazy, but at the same time, he was glad to come back. He went straight into Sherlock's room after getting home from breakfast with Molly. He looked in the same drawer that he'd found the first drawing, digging through the pairs of socks. He had no luck. He approached the bedside table when Mrs Hudson called him for breakfast. He left Sherlock's room, the door ajar.

Sherlock was thinking out loud in the car.

"So he found the one of the window? Well, that one was rather obvious; I'd hidden in the draw hastily. I didn't have time to put it away properly." He said as Molly drove along the busy road.

"I don't understand what the big deal about him seeing them is." Molly said, eyeing Sherlock in the mirror.

"They are personal, simple as that."

"Well, I suppose nothing will be personal now that he thinks you're dead." Molly said a little too snappily.

Sherlock looked up. "What's your problem?"

"Don't you see? This is a way for John to connect with you in a way he didn't before. That's why he's excited about it. Can't you just be happy that he's finding happiness from it?"

At this, Sherlock remained silent, staring absently out of the window.

"And how's Molly?" Mrs Hudson asked while setting the table.

"She seems alright. It was good to catch up." John replied, reading the newspaper.

"That's nice. You should see her more often; maybe she could come around for dinner one night; and how about Greg? You should see him too."

"Perhaps…" John lowered the newspaper. "I should apologise to him for being such a dick."

"Well, yes, you probably should."

"I just needed someone to blame, you know? But he wasn't to blame at all."

"You should arrange to meet him for drinks somewhere, what do you think?" the landlady asked, pouring some coffee.

"Yes, maybe tomorrow."

The next morning, Molly was up early to make breakfast for her and Sherlock. She had the day planned ahead.

"We're going shopping today." She said wen Sherlock joined her at the dining table.

The former detective groaned at the thought.

"Don't be like that. I have some ideas of what we could get you."

"Molly, I really don't care."

"Well I do. Eat your breakfast, then have a shower and get ready to go." Molly finished her last bite of toast and took her plate to the sink.

Moly pulled up outside of the chopping centre, and they got out the car.

"We'll go to a men's clothing store. I'm not going to let you wear cheap clothes."

"I don't care what clothes I wear." Sherlock mumbled.

"Come on," Molly ignored Sherlock's last comment as the entered the mall through the automatic doors.

She led him into a men's shop, and she browsed through jackets and coats. She pulled items of clothing off the shelves and hangers, thrusting them into Sherlock's arms. She accompanied him to the change rooms, standing outside while he tried on the clothes. First he came out from behind the curtains wearing a skinny suit. Molly shook her head.

"It looks too much like you."

"Funny, that," Sherlock sighed and disappeared behind the curtain again.

After what, to Sherlock, seemed like forever, he stepped out of the change room in a pea coat, and Molly gasped.

"What? What's wrong with it?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"That looks amazing on you! We are buying it!"

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk, and he went back into the change room.

The rest of the shopping trip was spent buying Sherlock some new shirts and t-shirts, before the went back home with bags full of new clothes.

John returned to Sherlock's room after breakfast, and resumed from where he left off: the bedside table. He searched the drawers. The top draw was full of vials, bottles and jars, some still containing unknown objects in them. The middle drawer contained a single deerstalker hat, and at the sight of it, John couldn't help but grin to himself. Finally, the bottom drawer seemed more promising. It was filled with paper, notebooks and-

"A sketchbook," John muttered to himself, and he opened the black cover of the book. He flicked through a few rough sketched of various things, one of the pictures looking like an eye in a glass jar; no doubt there had really been such a thing in the flat at some point. The next interesting picture was of a cat. It looked like a kitten, and it was shaded darkly. Next to it, in Sherlock's small writing, was the name 'Vincent'. After admiring the cat drawing for a few moments, John flicked the page again. The next drawing was unexpected; very unexpected.


	7. Chapter 7

It was a picture of John. He was smiling; his face was lit up with happiness. It was beautifully drawn, as if by an expert. John's eyes felt hot, and his vision blurred from the wet tears that glazed his eyes. He missed Sherlock so much. He wished he could talk to him about the things he'd found. Instead, they remained as unsaid conversations, begging to be had but the person to have them with wasn't there. He sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed and looked through the rest of the sketch book.

There was a twinge in Sherlock's stomach, like something had occurred… something important.

"Don't be stupid, you may as well be superstitious to think like that." He mumbled to himself.

"What was that?"

Sherlock had forgotten where he was for a moment.

"Nothing, Molly. It's of no importance."

"Alright, well I'm going out for a bit." Molly grabbed her handbag from the kitchen counter.

"Where?" Sherlock turned his head.

"I'm going to see Greg." She blushed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"What?" Molly questioned in annoyance.

"Nothing; just don't get his hopes up; he only just divorced his wife."

Molly opened her mouth to say something, but instead exited her flat in rush. Sherlock looked at his watch. It was six thirty. No doubt their date was at seven. They might spend two hours at the restaurant. There was a possibility they'd go somewhere after; not Lestrade's house as he didn't seem the kind of person to rush things, and neither did Molly. They were also in a bad state at the moment, probably Lestrade a bit more than Molly so they might just leave it at dinner. Either way, it meant Sherlock had time to have his own little outing. He pulled on a simple black coat and headed out.

He made it to Baker Street at quarter to seven with help of a cab. He looked up at the place which was his home. The lights were on upstairs. He didn't really know what he was doing there, so he settled on a park bench across the road from the flat. He was awake; alert. How badly he wanted to burst inside and see John, but he couldn't. He sat on the bench for what felt like hours. When he looked at his watch her realised that it had been several hours. It was ten at night. John wouldn't be in bed yet. Sherlock's heart was racing. The front door was never locked until Mrs Hudson went to bed, which was around ten thirty. Sherlock crossed the road swiftly and grasped the doorknob to 221B. He turned it slowly, and pushed the door open ever so slightly. The only source of light was from the living room upstairs. Sherlock stepped inside and began to panic. He began to climb the stairs, treading as lightly as he could manage. He then proceeded down the hall into his room. It looked almost the same as it had done when he'd left it, except the top drawer of the dresser was fully closed, and there was an indent in the bed where someone, no doubt John, had been sitting at some point. Sherlock wished he'd never come. Everything was so… normal. He wanted to settle in his bed, or go and have tea in the living room.

John's voice grew louder from the living room, and Sherlock rushed to his wardrobe and climbed inside. It wasn't very full; it just had a few old coats in there along with some shirts hanging up. There were two pairs of old shoes at the bottom, but they were on top of something Sherlock had almost forgotten about. He picked up the sketch book which he had put in the wardrobe angrily months ago. He reached in his coat pocket to get his phone. He unlocked it so the screen would be a source of light. He opened the sketch book and looked at the only picture inside it. It was him and John, with their arms around each other, looking at the viewer happily. Sherlock still hated it. It represented what he was always too shy to do. Even when he had told John that he had feelings for him, John didn't believe him; but really, it wasn't the doctor's fault. Sherlock acted in a way that made everybody believe that he was an emotionless machine. Of course John didn't believe him at first. Sherlock couldn't let him see the picture. He held it under his arm and waited. He couldn't leave until John and Mrs Hudson were in bed. That was the safest option.

Sherlock sat in the wardrobe, breathing evenly in the darkness. He could hear John saying goodnight to Mrs Hudson.

"Alright, see you tomorrow. I might get an early one too, actually." John's voice sounded muffled from rooms away.

Footsteps came closer, and Sherlock could tell that John had entered the room. The doctor exhaled deeply, and walked to the other side of the room. Sherlock held his breath. He hoped so badly that John wouldn't open the wardrobe door.

"Sherlock," John sighed.

Sherlock's eyes widened in the dark. Surely John didn't know he was there?

"You're room is too plain. It's… so unlike you. You were the most interesting person I knew."

Sentiment. John wasn't talking to him; well, not properly. The doctor turned, and his footsteps moved further away, until they stopped, and he spoke again.

"You know, I wish you told me about the drawings. I wish I knew before…"

John exited the room quickly. His footsteps died away and Sherlock waited until he heard John's bedroom door click shut. he climbed out of the wardrobe and exited the room, treading down the stairs carefully. He unlocked the front door slowly, opened it, and turned the lock again, closing the door softly, locking it again behind him. He exhaled deeply and waited for a cab to pass by, the sketch book still under his arm.


	8. Chapter 8

It was a bit past eleven at night when Sherlock got back to Molly's flat.

"Where the hell were you?" she asked, with a stressed expression. "I tried ringing you but you didn't pick up!"

"I left my phone here." Sherlock replied plainly.

"So would you care to explain where you were then?"

Sherlock mumbled a response which was hardly audible.

"What?"

"Baker Street." He said a bit louder.

"Sherlock! Do you know how risky that is? You could have been seen!"

"Do you think I didn't know that? I wish I never went, but it's done now, so there's no use arguing about it." Sherlock disappeared down the hall.

Molly sighed, and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth.

John awoke early the next morning. He barely got any sleep anymore. He went to the bathroom, and visited Sherlock's room again. The previous night had felt strange in there. He swore he could smell him, like he was there. That's why he spoke… why he said what he said. It felt like he was there. But the room felt normal again. Still, dead. He heard the paper slap the ground outside the front door, so he went downstairs and opened the front door. He picked up the newspaper and was about to close the front door again when he heard a 'mew'. He looked down and saw a little grey cat. It weaved between John's ankles and purred. John knelt down and stroked the small creature. It's big eyes stared at him with admiration, when John realised something.

"Are you Vincent?" he spoke to the cat, and it nuzzled his hand affectionately.

Of course it could have been any old cat, but it seemed familiar with the house, as it made its way inside, and began to climb the stairs clumsily. John followed it in amusement. The cat finally reached the top, and it trotted into Sherlock's room. It had to be… the cat in Sherlock's drawing. There was another thing John didn't know about Sherlock. He'd never thought of him to be an animal person.

Sherlock was already up, reading the newspaper. It was so boring, but he didn't know what else to do other than wait for Molly to wake up to give him ideas. He didn't have to wait long until she entered the kitchen in her dressing gown. She yawned before she put the kettle on.

"Coffee?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied, stretching back on his chair.

"I think it's time you told Mycroft." Molly spoke suddenly.

Sherlock sighed. "I know; I've left it too long."

Molly was surprised when Sherlock didn't argue with her. "So how are you going to do it?"

"I'll text him."

"What? So you're just going to text your brother to tell him 'Hey, I'm actually alive, help me'?"

"Well, not in those words. How do you suppose I do it then, Molly? An emotional meeting? That's not how we do it in the Holmes family."

"Alright, whatever you think is right. I suppose I won't be seeing you for a while once you get started?"

"No, you won't. I'll most likely be gone for a while." Sherlock hung his head.

"I'll look after John." Molly said softly.

Sherlock looked up with his brilliant eyes. "Don't let him feel alone."

Greg stared at the name in his contacts list before he finally dialled.

"Hello?" Molly's kind voice answered.

"Hi Molly, it's Greg. I was wondering if you wanted to go out today?"

"Oh, I was about to ring John to ask him about visiting Sherlock's grave together. Maybe you could come? Only if you want to."

"Um, sure. I probably should, and I'm sure John needs support. I haven't really seen him since the funeral."

"Okay, well I'll arrange the time now and text you the details."

"Okay, see you."

"Bye Greg."

Molly hung up, and Greg lowered the phone from his ear. He wanted to visit Sherlock's grave of course, but at the same time he didn't. He still felt so guilty. But he would do it, for Molly and for John.

John pulled on his shoes before looking in the bathroom mirror to make sure his appearance was alright. After tidying up his hair, he pulled on a jacket and waited by the living room window for Molly's car to pull up. About ten minutes later, her car stopped out front, and John grabbed his keys and went downstairs. When John opened the front door, Molly was there, looking as if she was just about to knock.

"Hello John." She smiled warmly.

"Molly, how are you?"

"Yes, I'm good; you?"

"Yeah, fine. How about your cousin?"

Molly froze. She had forgotten about her little lie. "Um, he's fine. He'll be moving out soon to live with his brother."

"Ah, that'll be less trouble for you then?"

"I suppose, but I'll miss him all the same."

John smiled and they got in the car.

They'd stopped at a florist on the way to the cemetery to buy some flowers. John bought some blue roses, and Molly bought white ones. Molly squeezed John's hand on the way out of the shop. She wasn't sure why she did it, but she just thought of what Sherlock said.

Greg had arrived at the cemetery early. He never liked to be the last one there, so he thought he'd be the first instead. He held a bouquet of different coloured carnations while he leant against the cemetery fence.

Molly's car pulled up, and John was in the passenger. Greg hadn't really expected them to arrive together. They got out the car, holding their roses. Molly smiled at Greg when she spotted him, and approached him to pull him into a hug. John greeted him too, and didn't seem to be repulsed by his presence, which was a good sign. They walked through the cemetery together, in small conversation. They stopped at Sherlock's grave. It was very simple compared to the others. There was no message, no dates; just his name is golden letters. Molly put her flowers down first, followed by John, then Greg. Molly looked at the two men beside her, and slipped her hands into theirs.

"We miss you Sherlock." She spoke.

John swallowed hard. He didn't want to cry in front of his friends now. When John didn't speak up, Greg decided to say something.

"We do. We miss you like hell; and I'm sorry I doubted you; really I am."

Molly smiled sadly at him and squeezed his hand tighter. She looked to her right at John.

"John?"

John looked up at her, then back at the grave. He wasn't really sure what to say, especially with the other two there.

"Uh… there… there isn't a day when I'm not thinking of you, and… I miss you so much."

He left it there before his voice cracked. As sad as he felt, he was glad his friends were there with him.


	9. Chapter 9

John, Molly and Greg went to a pub after the visit to Sherlock's grave. They sat at a secluded table, each with a glass of their drink of choice.

Greg looked at his watch. They'd been there for half an hour. John and Molly were talking; they sat opposite him. he kept looking up from his glass at them, sitting close, laughing with each other and smiling. Of course, John was going through a very hard time, and Molly was just being nice, but he couldn't help what he was feeling, although he felt terrible for it. He glanced at them again and felt a twinge of jealousy. He made himself angry. Sherlock's dead, John's distraught, and Molly's being comforting, and he's sitting there being jealous just because two friends are sitting next to each other, being happy for a change?

"Greg, are you okay?" Molly asked, bringing him out of his thoughts.

"Yeah mate, you look a bit pale." John interjected.

"Um, yeah, I think I might just get some air." Greg stood up and exited the pub.

The cool breeze felt good on his face as he breathed heavily. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his packet of cigarettes. He didn't smoke often, but he really needed one. He slid one out of the packet, and reached in his pocket again to retrieve a lighter. He inhaled through the cigarette once it was lit, and closed his eyes. He drifted away for a moment before looking into the pub window. Molly and John were still looking like they were getting along wonderfully… he ws the one who'd taken her on dates and made it obvious he liked her, and yet, she was spending more time with John. He wasn't the only one who was sad about Sherlock's death…

Greg threw the cigarette one the pavement and stomped on it with his right shoe, before he went back inside.

"I think I'll head off now, I'm not feeling too good." He said, leaning over the table.

"Oh, okay. I hope you feel better soon." Molly smiled warmly.

"Yeah, bye." Greg replied shortly, and John gave a little wave.

Sherlock sat on the same bench straight across from 221B. he'd been waiting there for almost an hour, in his pea coat, a cigarette between his fingers. He'd be leaving tomorrow to begin his mission to rid the world of the remaining of Moriarty's men, and he wanted to see John before he left.

He didn't have to wait too much longer before Molly's car pulled up in front of the flat, and John stepped out, saying his goodbyes to Molly. The car drove away and Sherlock watched as John walked up to the door and let himself in. the door clicked shut behind him, and that was all Sherlock saw of the doctor. That was the best he could hope for, and it made him so sad. It was just a few lousy seconds. He drew back from the cigarette and stood up quickly, striding down the path at a quick pace; that of a man who'd nearly given up.

_John rose from his sleeping position. He could hear something – pages.. pages being turned. He hurried to turn on the light and examined the room. In the chair next to his dresser, sat a tall, dark haired man in a black suit._

_"Sherlock?"_

_The man looked up. "Yes." He flicked through the book again, which John noted, was the book he'd stored the drawings he'd found. "You found them then?"_

_"Um, yeah… you never told me-" _

_"Was there any need to?" the detective cut across his words._

_"I suppose not. Why didn't you tell me you were alive? These past few weeks have been hell for me."_

_"Yes," Sherlock said again, and he looked down at his knees sadly, before his eyes met John's. "I'm so sorry." He said desperately._

_"But why did you do this? Why did you leave me?" John's voice elevated and anger bubble inside him, when the scene slipped away, the furniture blurring, Sherlock's figure disappearing._

John sat up. He stood up quickly and turned on the light. He examined the room… he was alone.

"Of course it was just a dream." John whispered to himself, staring at the chair next to his dresser.


	10. Chapter 10

John occupied the living room the next morning, accompanied by Mrs Hudson. He's eyes stung with tiredness, and the light that shone through the window seemed too much for him. Mrs Hudson was sorting through the mail, throwing catalogues aside and tearing open bills. She tore open one of the envelopes and slid out the document inside. She scanned through, and frowned.  
"I'll make us some tea." She said quickly, disappearing into the kitchen.  
The strange behaviour not going unnoticed by John, he stood up and picked up the letter. It was an electricity bill, and not a cheap one either. John sat back down before Mrs Hudson re-entered the room. He gazed out of the window in thought as his tea was placed in the coffee table in front of him.  
"Is anything wrong, dear?" the landlady asked.  
"I should get a job." John said bluntly.  
"No dear, you need to recover."  
"No, I'm not sitting around. It lets me think too much, and we have bills to pay."  
Mrs Hudson frowned again. "What makes you think you have to worry about the bills?"  
"I looked at the letter, Mrs Hudson; it's obvious we're struggling. I'm a fit, healthy man; I should get a job; simple as that. I'll go to the clinic today and see if there are any places available."  
Knowing that John's words were final, Mrs Hudson didn't argue any further.

John went to the clinic later that day, and luckily for him, one of their doctor's had recently gone on leave, and they were looking for a replacement. Fitting the qualifications, he got the job, and would be starting the following week. His spirits lifted slightly at this, because for the first time in a while, he was going to feel useful, and have something else to think about than Sherlock.

The next day around lunchtime, John received a text.  
Want something to do?  
- GL

What are we talking?  
- JW

A case; stolen fortune, strange murder. You in?  
- GL

Give me twenty minutes.  
- JW

John arrived at the scene of the crime after Lestrade sent him the address. There were several policemen around, searching around the house.  
"There's a missing fortune, and a bloke hanging dead from the ceiling. Come upstairs and see." Lestrade gave John a friendly slap on the shoulder before leading him upstairs. They entered a room; the sight that was met was rather terrifying. I man was hanging upside down from the ceiling, but not just that; his face was set in the most wicked smile, as if it was the face of a laughing psychopath, frozen in time. John had a sharp intake of breath.  
"Creepy, isn't it?" Lestrade said matter-of-factly. "Take a look."  
The detective inspector gestured towards the hanging body. John stepped forward and had a closer look. He suddenly had a cold flush run through him. It felt wrong being there without Sherlock. He felt like he didn't belong. He was the sidekick, not the grand detective; he usually stood on the sidelines making minor or unimportant observations.  
"John, are you alright?"  
John looked up and saw Lestrade's face, lined with concern.  
"Yeah," John said airily, and he moved his gaze back to the body.  
He looked closely around every inch of it until-  
"Look here," John beckoned Lestrade and pointed the hanging man's neck. "There's something stuck in his neck."  
Lestrade called one of his team who put on a pair of gloves and got out an evidence bag. They took out a pair of tweezers and moved them towards the hanging's man's neck. The pulled out the small object and held it to the light.  
"It appears to be some kind of thorn." They said, and they placed it into the bag and sealed it.  
"Good spotting, John; care to continue?" Lestrade grinned.  
John looked at his watch. "Oh, sorry, I can't. I've got an interview to go to." He lied.  
"Oh, alright. Good luck with that." Lestrade seemed taken aback, but bid the doctor farewell.  
John made his way downstairs and out the front door. The group of policemen were still hanging about, but John noticed there was also a rather pretty woman looking distressed, waiting outside the building. John looked away and continued walking, but she approached him.  
"What's happened in there? They won't let me in." she said.  
"Who are you?" John asked.  
"I'm Mary Morstan; it was my money that was stolen. I just want to know what's going on."  
John sighed. "Okay, well I've just been in quickly, and there's a man inside, dead. That's all I know."  
"Can I leave you my details so you can contact me if you shed any light?" Mary asked, beginning to dig around in her handbag for a pen.  
"Oh, no; I don't work for the police. Sorry."  
"Oh," her face fell. "Well, thank you for your help."  
"You're welcome." John nodded to her and was on his way.  
He didn't like the feeling of that crime scene. It wasn't same without his coated detective stating facts every second, outdoing all policemen on sight; and it wasn't the same not being amazed by those things, as there was no one to amaze him anymore.


	11. Chapter 11

There was a knock at the door. Mycroft Holmes looked up from his papers as one of his employees poked his head through the door.

"There's someone here to see you sir." The thin man said.

"I'm quite busy; tell them to come back another time." Mycroft replied in a wary voice.

"Forgive me sir, but I think you will want to see this visitor now."

Mycroft gave the man a questioning look before saying "Send them in."

Moments later a tall, thin figure entered the room, dressed in black. Mycroft still concentrated on his papers until the visitor sat down in front of the elder Holmes' desk, when he looked up and gasped.

"Sherl-"

"Yes, it's me." Sherlock said in a almost bored voice, but not quite as harsh as it would have been in very different circumstances.

"You… how did you do it?"

Sherlock was glad that his brother was different to other people, who if they were in the same situation, would go through a long process of disbelief, making up ridiculous explanations for such an occurrence such as spiritual activity, or even fainting. His brother at least, got straight to the point.

"Let's not worry about that now. I need your help. I need to track down Moriarty's men. Moriarty is dead, but it's still not safe. John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade are still in danger."

"So I presume they do not know that you live?"

"No, they do not; and it will have to stay that way for some time to come." With this, sadness clouded Sherlock's eyes.

Mycroft looked at his brother pitifully before saying "So, you need my help. What can I do to assist?"

John awoke with a nasty shock from his alarm clock. He smacked the sleep button before hauling himself out of bed. It was his first day back at work. He saw that Mrs Hudson has risen to the occasion as he entered the kitchen, for breakfast was already on the table.

"There you go, dear; a nice big breakfast to get you started." The landlady said, as she then placed a mug of coffee next to John's plate.

John finished his food in a hurry and got dressed quickly. He didn't want there to be even a possibility that he would be late on his first day. He put on his shoes and jacket and left 221B, hailing a cab.

When he arrived at the clinic, he signed in at reception and was shown to his office by a woman from reception. She pushed open the door for him and bade him farewell, before John entered the room. It was very plain; the desk had nothing on it except for a computer monitor and a printer. There were a few medical posters on the walls, and on top of the filing cabinet in the corner was a model of the human skeleton. He sat himself at the desk and thought about how he could personalise his workspace before there was a soft knock at his door. It was the woman from reception again.

"Here's your list of clients today Dr Watson; there's not many today since it's your first day, but you'll get more over time." She smiled and left the room, snapping the door shut behind her.

John looked at the sheet she'd left on his desk. His first appointment was in fifteen minutes.  
-

The day dragged on, until finally John came to the last patient on the list:

_Mary Morstan_

He stared at the name. it sounded very familiar. He exited his office and stepped out into the waiting room.

"Mary?"

A woman stood up and smiled at the doctor. It was the woman from the crime scene. John turned and led the way to his office, holding the door open for her to enter. She took a seat, and John sat down at his desk.

"We've met before." She stated.

"Yes, I believe we have." John said awkwardly.

"I didn't catch your name though."

"Well, I'm Doctor Watson."

"I meant you first name."

"Uh, John."

"Nice to meet you John."

"Yes… so, what can I do for you?" John asked, getting back to business.

"I'm just here for a blood pressure test. I'm on the pill so this is a regular check-up."

"Okay, that's all fine." John reached into a draw and pulled out a sphygmomanometer. "Just pull up your sleeve, please."

Mary did as asked and John put the cuff around her upper-arm.

"You're blood pressure is all in good order." John said after the test had been completed. "So are you having any problems with the pills? Any cramps or nausea?"

"No everything is fine."

"And you're aware of procedures if you are going to engage in intercourse?" Even though he was a doctor, John still didn't like asking these routine questions.

Mary flushed. "I'm not taking them to avoid pregnancy."

"Oh, right. Well, any problems, just make another appointment." John's face burned.

"Yes, thank you, John." Mary slung her handbag over her shoulder and stood up, walking to the door, when she halted. "Have you heard anything else about my stolen money?" she asked.

"I think you should ask Scotland Yard for more information, since they're the ones dealing with the case. I'm not a policeman, obviously."

"Why were you there then?" Mary asked curiously.

"One of the inspectors invited me." After saying this, John realised how strange it must sound for someone to be invited to a crime scene. "I could give you Inspector Lestrade's phone number if you wish?"

"No, that's fine. Thank you." Mary turned on her heel, her golden hair swishing behind her.


End file.
